


Five soliloquies and a dialogue

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this story to fill a prompt from the kinkmeme:<br/>5 things John told Sherlock's tombstone and 1 thing he told Sherlock to his face after he came back. Here's the kicker: no slash, only epic bro-dom.<br/>Spoiler warnings: Post-Reichenbach Falls</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five soliloquies and a dialogue

1.

Everyone thinks I followed your orders because I couldn’t function without orders to follow. Or that I was stupid. Or that I was in love with you. None of them had a bloody clue, which was ridiculous, because it was so obvious. Not that I’m sure you ever got it, either. You great idiot.

It wasn’t just because we were friends. It’s not even that I clearly have a not very healthy addiction to danger. I followed your orders because I’d have to be mad not to follow a general like you, wherever you went. I've followed worse, but never one better. You led us to victory more often not.

You’ll notice I didn’t follow your stupid orders. That’s one luxury I didn’t have in Afghanistan. I’m taking it here. I am not telling everyone you’re a fake. It’s a stupid order. Stupid.

 

2.

Don’t think I didn’t notice. It just took a while. All that sentiment gets in the way, you’re right. But it’s not a handicap. I won’t believe that. I’m too busy believing in you, which isn’t hard, despite everything.

The thing it took me two months to notice is that nobody would let me take your pulse. And we might have been at St Bart’s but that ambulance crew arrived suspiciously quickly. The way you sent me away.

And then there was Irene Adler.

I could be wrong. I’m probably wrong. We probably really did bury you.

But maybe we didn’t. Maybe you pulled an Adler. You’d better have a bloody good reason for not telling me.

You’d better bloody not be dead. You’re my best friend, and you had better bloody not be dead. I don’t want to be going mad.

Come back. I miss you.

 

3.

If you’re not dead, you haven’t told Mycroft. Or if you have, he’s a better actor than I thought, because he’s got that look in his eyes. He looks like I used to, in the mirror, before I started thinking about… the fall. How you… Well. Yes. That. Cable round the ankle, maybe? You’d have worked it. You’re clever enough, though you must have had help. When I suggested it to Mycroft he was furious, but mostly because I thought he was trying not to cry. Have you ever seen the British Government trying not to cry? Bloody disconcerting.

If you’re really not dead, and you’re listening to this, you’d better not tell him that I said I saw him trying not to cry. You will, though, 'cause you’re a git and sibling rivalry is a curse..

He’s sorry, you know, about Moriarty. I never told you he said to say that. He’s sorry and he misses you and he’s kind of fucked up about it. More than usual, I mean. He’s not alone in that of course. We’re both a sorry mess with a Sherlock-shaped hole in the world.

I learned a Greek word the other day. Four, actually. Did you know the Greeks had four words for love? Probably not. Not useful to you, really. But here it is anyway. _Philia_ is the love between friends. _Agape_ , that’s unconditional love.

Mycroft wasn’t that impressed with filial love. _Storge_ , it’s called. I don’t think either of you would much like to admit it, but I have Harry for a sister, so I get it. Storge is the perfect word for it.

They weren’t right when they thought I was in love with you. _Eros_ has nothing to do with it. But love you? I’ll own that. _Philia_ and _agape_ , definitely.

I _agape_ you, Sherlock Holmes, and you had better not be dead.

 

4.

Funnily enough, it seems that Mycroft decided I wasn’t mad with grief after all. It also seems that Moriarty had a considerable network and it wasn’t quite as off the radar as he liked to think. Mycroft managed to get hold of a thread and he’s followed it.

Actually, Mycroft is sending me to deal with one or two of them people attached to that thread. He wasn’t thrilled by the idea, naturally, but I’ve made it clear how much trouble I’m going to be if he doesn’t. We figure, if we’re right – and I know I’m probably an idiot, but he’s a Holmes so that’s a lot less likely, at least when it comes to this sort of thing – you might need some help to get home. You’ve gone to all this effort for a reason, after all. You’re up to something. You’re always up to something.

Which means you’re keeping us in the dark for a reason. It had better be a bloody good one, you great pillock, or I swear I’m knocking you six ways to Sunday when this is all over. 

But anyway. Do what you have to do from your end of hell. Mycroft and I are knocking down a couple of hell’s walls from our side.

If it turns out you’re really dead, it’s as good a revenge as any. That’s something, isn’t it?

 

5.

Come home. It’s very inconvenient having a best friend pretending to be dead. Especially since Mycroft let a few salient facts out into the world. They know that Moriarty was real. They know that you were real. Of course, I told them so all along, but who listens to me? You certainly never did.

Something you have in common with your brother, by the way.

It’s taken eighteen months, but three of Moriarty’s crew are down, from our end. I had to shoot the last one myself. He damned near got Mycroft. Who told that idiot to go in the field? He’s not you. And it’s not like he’s got a bloody bullet proof umbrella, either. Git. You Holmeses can be right gits.

Three down. How many to go? Are you out there? Have we burned a path through hell for you yet? You’d better not actually be dead. And don’t make me come looking for you, you bastard, because you know I will. Mycroft’s given me a few more resources than I used to have. And as soon as he’s out of hospital, he’ll get me my helicopter. You know he will, too. Because even your brother knows that friends are rare and you fight for them. Like I know you’re fighting for me and Greg and Mrs Hudson.

Come home. Surely it’s time?

 

+1

The last time John Watson went to the graveyard, a tall, emaciated man was standing behind Sherlock's gravestone. The hat (not a deerstalker) and the scarf (rough homespun wool, not cashmere) concealed his face, but that did not matter one solitary damn. John would know that ghost anywhere.

“Two years, four months and six days. It’s about time,” said John.

“It took a while to knock down hell’s wall at my side,” said Sherlock.

“I figured.”

“There’s one more to go. Sebastian Moran. Once he’s down, it’s over.”

“Your name has been cleared already.”

“I know. But the threat isn’t over yet, even with four fifths of Moriarty’s inner circle gone. Moran was always the one to fear. We have to move quickly, before Moriarty makes good on his promise.”

“He's still trying to burn your heart out, eh?”

“I admit, you haven’t made it easy to protect you, chasing after Moriarty’s crew with my big brother. Mycroft, as you pointed out, was not made for field work.”

“He’ll live though, with not even a limp to show for it.”

“Yes. I appreciated your field surgery, in that regard.”

“Not half as much as he did. So. We’d better deal with Moran, then, so you can come home.”

“A very good plan.”

“I thought so. By the way…”

“Yes?”

“I missed you, you great pillock.”

“And I missed you, John.”

“Good. And Sherlock?"

A raised eyebrow.

"It’s your turn to buy dinner.”

When the dust settled and Moran had been dragged away (to the police hospital, because everyone had all been mightily pissed off with him and no-one was in the mood to be gentle during the arrest) Sherlock and John went home.

Mrs Hudson cuffed Sherlock around the ears for making her cry so much, then hugged him fit to break ribs and cried. Sherlock gave John a helpless look over the top of her head, and John just beamed at him and was no help at all.

Mrs Hudson, not bothering to protest that she wasn’t the housekeeper, brought them tea and biscuits. John and Sherlock sat across from each other on their old chairs.

"For the record, John," said Sherlock, "The _agape_... goes both ways."

"I knew you must be listening," said John. "Prat." His grin was huge and his eyes were laughing. Sherlock blinked, then laughed. The two of them were helpless with it for a moment, until John sobered enough to add. “Welcome home. ”

“Good to be back,” said Sherlock.

And John made a fresh pot of tea and eventually fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock playing soothing airs on his long-neglected violin for his long-absent but never neglected friend.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Five shots and a fistfight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482355) by [BookGirlFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlFan/pseuds/BookGirlFan)




End file.
